


Never Better

by Oshii



Series: I Have That Effect on Women: Lucifer H/C Prompt Fills ;) [6]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Cutaways, Episode: s03e20 The Angel of San Bernardino, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Nausea, Sleep Deprivation, Vomiting, deckerstar if you squint even harder, douchifer-ready but not really, ella and charlotte richards make brief cameos, lucifer is suffering, marclo if you squint, within his own personal hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 08:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18091295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshii/pseuds/Oshii
Summary: Takes place within the duration of 3x20, “The Angel of San Bernardino”. After a week without sleep, Lucifer shatters. Dan reluctantly goes and picks up the pieces. Emeto, H/C, nausea, exhaustion, angst, dizziness, good guy Dan.





	Never Better

**Author's Note:**

> For an anonymous Tumblr prompt:
> 
> "I love your sickfics, they've all been so great! Thanks for some real quality content! How about Lucifer sick at the precinct bathroom because being sick in a more or less public space is always awful and Dan goes into check on him". 
> 
> My pleasure, anon. ;)   
> Posted March 12, 2019.  
> Original link: https://oshii.tumblr.com/post/183412132904/i-love-your-sickfics-theyve-all-been-so-great

  
There was once a time, when he still ruled Hell, that Lucifer took great glee in watching the damned lose themselves in the tumult of their own unraveling sanity.

He relished the fear that would widen their eyes as they lost what tenuous control they held over their own personal hells, as the guilt of their acquitted crimes or their kept secrets crept into the edges of their constructed realities like festering dark tendrils, dimming and distorting safe memories into harsh, bitter, unforgiving scenarios, playing out over and over _and over, for all of eternity_. Because the damned – the guilty – tortured themselves. Lucifer had no part in their undoing. He was merely a captive audience. After a couple millennia, things did grow a bit boring, but never less delicious.

Now, on Earth – in L.A., his newfound home and supposed place of safety and familiarity – he knew what that felt like. What it was, truly, to live in one’s own personal hell, day after day, with no hope of escape. He didn’t even have the comfort of lordship to grasp, not among these humans with whom his survival depended on blending. And blending wouldn’t come easily if he was flying around on angel wings saving people from structure fires, or old ladies from home invasions. Not if he was leaving behind evidence.

 _I’m going mad,_ he’d thought, staring at the dark circles ringing his eyes in the mirror that morning. Surely, he was losing his own grip on sanity; that had to be the only excuse. The Devil had lost his mind, at last.

Still, he’d tried to keep up appearances. The Detective was expecting him to be by her side, after all. _Stiff upper lip, Morningstar .Get it together. Sniff and straighten your lapels. Those buttons are done up, right?_

Cracking this case was proving more difficult than initially anticipated. The Detective was methodical, as always, bless her sacred continuity – it lent some modicum of stability to Lucifer’s current state of crisis.

 _What is up with you lately?_ She’d asked, one day, commenting on his disheveled appearance and dark circles, glancing over with concerned scrutiny beneath her rigid gun-toting posture. _Are you okay?_

 _Yes, Booth, I’m fine,_ he’d replied, sniffed (the Adderall had left a lingering tingle in his right nostril). _Never better_.

When three days crept closer to one week, one full week without sleep, Lucifer felt the edges of madness rapidly dissolving his façade of normality. His hair was a shaggy mess, lacking gel; his eyes were bloodshot and sagging with dark circles, and his suit was disgusting. He’d worn it for three days now.

He’d vomited in the parking lot on his way in this morning, overtaken by a sudden wave of vertigo, stumbling and nearly slamming onto the hood of one of the cruisers parked nearby, the world spinning and his stomach heaving uncontrollably. It tasted of scotch and not much else.

Chloe’d asked if he’d eaten, hovering anxiously and rubbing his back with care. He’d shrugged her off and straightened up, dabbing at his own mouth with his pocket handkerchief. _Depends,_ he’d countered wearily. _Does twenty-year single malt count as a well-balanced breakfast?_

The lights were maddeningly bright within the precinct; his own fluorescent hell, workplace puns aside. Everybody was incessantly chattering and everything was blurred at the edges. He blinked, squinted, blinked again. Rubbed a tired hand over his tired eyes. His heart fluttered, palpitated within his chest. Ella said something to him – _what was that, Ms. Lopez?_ – it was her own expression of concern. _I’m fine, really_.

That damned Pierce came out of his office, hulking man-ham as he was, to announce some annual board review policy measures and upcoming proxy votes and uniform budgets and holy Dad, who bloody _cared_? Someone at the next desk over was eating a microwaved cheese Danish. The smell was strong; it hit Lucifer in the middle of Pierce’s speech, and he leaned over to Chloe and excused himself. _I’m sorry, Detective_. Stood and hastily wound his way betwixt the gathered crowd of uniformed officers, hurrying to the washroom. He was going to be sick again.

He lost all of his composure once reaching the men’s room. Stumbling forward with all the grace of a drunken newborn colt, Lucifer thrust a hand out and his palm collided – _smack!_ – with the handicapped stall; he pushed it open and collapsed onto the tile floor and crawled up to the toilet just in time.

Amid the blood roaring in his ears and the pounding in his skull, Lucifer wondered absently (not for the first time that week) if this wasn’t some sick and twisted mindgame being played on him by dear old Dad. The sounds of his sickness echoed off the porcelain, taunting him without remorse.

\--

Dan had done good work on reestablishing a healthier partnership with Chloe. He really had.

Palmetto had changed him - the secret nearly destroyed him, and the near-fatal consequences of its revelations two years ago had humbled him. Malcolm was not what he wanted to become. He was a good man; Malcolm was not. Sure, he couldn’t help the occasional (often) twinge of jealousy he felt upon seeing Lucifer with his wife (ex-wife). Fuck, he’d wanted to shoot the bastard himself when they’d started working together – under what absurd grounds had he been granted the title of “citizen consultant”? Just how much money did this Morningstar guy have, anyway? What kinds of “favors” did he grant, exactly?

He didn’t fucking like Lucifer. But, over time, he’d learned to tolerate the ostentatious nightclub owner. The guy had guts, he’d give him that. Despite his recklessness and infatuation with his (ex) wife, Lucifer had proved himself a valuable asset to more than one case in the last two years. They’d keep him, for now.

This turn of grace was what inspired Dan to be a good human when, that morning during Pierce’s briefing, Chloe had turned to him, nudged him, gave him The Look, the pleading one that accompanied her murmured _go check on him, Dan? Please? I’m worried about him_.

Dan had reciprocated with a Look of his own, but he’d never been able to match Chloe. “The guy’s probably hungover,” he muttered back at her. “He doesn’t need a babysitter. He needs to go home.”

“No, Dan, this isn’t like Lucifer,” she hissed back, her brow furrowing. “Something’s up. He needs help.”

“Chloe—”

“Detective Espinoza.” Pierce had interrupted himself, causing every head in the room to jerk backward in their direction. “Something you wanna share?”

“Nothing, sir,” Dan responded quickly, hands returning to his hips. He jerked a thumb toward the hallway. “Gotta hit the head, is all. Sorry.”

“Make it quick,” Pierce admonished, shuffling the papers in his hand and getting back to business as Dan wove his way through the crowd and slipped out of the room.

 _Dammit_. Chloe still had his balls in her back pocket. And Lucifer poked the lump and giggled like a satyr.

Detective Williams came out of the men’s room as Dan headed in, and the look on his face was grave. “Your boy’s in there, sick,” he informed Dan, disgust in evident display. “And it ain’t pretty.”

“Lucky me,” Dan sighed, shaking his head and pushing past the senior detective.

\--

Somewhere between misery and resignation, Lucifer hovered over the toilet, one arm draped across the bowl and the other arm propping up his head. What vile, debased filth had he suffered himself to bear? Another wave of nausea swept through him, and he bent double through another painful stomach clench.

“Lucifer?” Was that Detective Douche calling his name with a modicum of concern? “You okay, man?”

It _was_. Oh, _bloody_ hell. Lucifer spat acid into the toilet and struggled to sniff up some composure. The smell nearly made him gag again. “I’m fine, Daniel,” he croaked with all the dignity he could muster. “Never better.”

There was a distinct shuffling; Dan readjusted his stance self-consciously, his boots visible beneath the handicapped stall. Thankfully, no other men stood at the urinals behind him, or washed their hands in the sinks. Not that many men did that, anyway, but still. “Chloe’s worried,” continued Dan, and Lucifer could hear him putting his hands on his hips. “I’m not leaving till I know you’re not…OD’ing or something.”

At that, Lucifer did feel some strength lent by his indignation, and he drew himself up with a mere wince. “Really, Daniel,” he admonished sourly, voice quite rough from pharyngeal abuse. “The nerve of you. Accusing me of OD’ing like a suicidal teenager? I think not.”

“Then what the hell’s your deal, man?” Dan was getting irritated, and this time, it wasn’t on Chloe’s behalf. “You’ve been AWOL this whole week, you come back lookin’ like crap warmed over, weirder than usual…are you-” he stopped, considered. Shifted his weight from one boot to the other.

Lucifer closed his eyes, dizziness threatening to overwhelm him amidst the nausea. “Am I _what_ , Douche?”

In the 2.5 seconds it should have taken for Dan’s reply, Lucifer suddenly realized he’d neglected to lock the stall door in his haste to not projectile vomit all over the floor. As if on cue, Dan abruptly pushed the door open, leather jacket on and suntanned scowl fixed in place, his eyes piercing as he stared at Lucifer. Pity.

That turned Lucifer’s stomach more than anything, and despite eons of accumulated self-respect screaming at him _not to, not in front of Detective Douche_ , he could not help but turn and reach for the toilet once more as his stomach rebelled again. Or tried to, anyway; after that last bout of vomiting, his stomach was fairly empty, but that didn’t stop it from trying to turn all the way inside out. A last hurrah, perhaps, before death.

“Ah, jeez,” cringed Dan from the doorway, face contorting at the liquid straining of his cohort. His own stomach twisted in sympathy, and he had to sniff up some composure himself, shifting a little anxiously. “Are you…you need anything?”

Slowly – perhaps his reluctance was borne from the desire to have perished – Lucifer took a ragged breath and sat upright, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand. His eyes closed out of shame, self-loathing tasting as bitter as the bile at the back of his throat. “…no thank you, Daniel,” he managed stiffly. “I’m fine.”

“Cut the crap.” Dan snapped, and his sudden vehemence made Lucifer look up to see Dad Mode Dan glaring down at him, arms folded and posture rigid. “You’re not _fine_ , haven’t _been_ fine in days. Whatever’s going on, you need to talk to somebody. But first,” he continued through Lucifer’s raised finger, “you gotta try and drink some water, man.”

That didn’t go in quite the direction Lucifer anticipated, so he sat numbly by his porcelain throne while Dan absconded briefly, presumably to obtain the mentioned water for the said drinking. In his absence, another man did come in and piss, hum a little, wash his hands, and leave, all without incident – a small blessing, perhaps, but big enough that Lucifer rolled his eyes heavenwards and murmured a _thank you._

When the door opened again, it was Dan returning, and he presented the bottled water – fresh from the vending machine – like a peace offering. “Here,” he announced, tone annoyingly soft. “Try and drink.”

\--

Chloe had approached him as he stood at the vending machine, sighting him like a predator. “How is he?”

Dan, who had been meticulously deliberating between Crystal Clear for $1.00 or Glacier Wet for $1.50, because he was feeling extra benevolent this morning, turned to look at his ex-ol’ lady. “Sick as a dog,” he replied. “Is Lucifer on anything that you know of? Pills, coke…heroin?”

“Pretty sure he snorts coke every morning like Splenda,” Chloe muttered back, “but the hard stuff, Dan? Really? I don’t think he’s the type.”

Dan made his selection, pushed the buttons, and watched as the metal spiral unfurled to let the water bottle clunk down to the bottom of the machine. “Honestly, Chlo, I don’t know what to think about that guy half the time.” He squatted down to retrieve the prize, wincing a little as his bad knee popped on the way up. “You’re right, though. Guy does need some help. I gotta get back, make sure he doesn’t drown.”

“What?” Chloe’s brow knit even deeper with renewed concern. “Dan—”

“I’ll catch up with you, promise,” Dan called over his shoulder, holding the bottle aloft in parting.

Chloe stood there and watch him slip back into the men’s bathroom, heaving an exasperated sigh. Most of her tugged back to the meeting room, where Pierce was awaiting her return; the rest of her wished she could follow Dan into that bathroom to check on Lucifer.

(well, technically, she could, but she refused to stoop to Lucifer’s level of theatrics).

\--

Lucifer knew, now, that all of this was surely some cruel ironic hand being dealt by his sadistic father. This insecurity, the lost sense of time, spinning loss of control, and this present, _debilitating_ incapacitation. Surely, the former King of Hell was finally being punished for his crimes committed here on Earth.

Detective Douche was rubbing his back, and Dad help him, Lucifer was too sick to say stop.

“Hey, easy,” came Dan’s insufferable voice from above his left ear, and Lucifer heaved harder at it, the water he’d just drank now coming back up in scorching mouthfuls. “You tried, man. Let it out.”

From within the confines of his porcelain prison, Lucifer gasped for breath between peristaltic contractions. “ _Daniel,_ ” he grated out, hoarse as a nightmare, desperate and raw, and realized he didn’t have any other words prepared in following. Great, now Douche was going to interpret that as an exclamation of adulation.

Dan did just that. “Hey, it’s all right, buddy,” he murmured, rubbing another circle between Lucifer’s shoulders, prompting another shuddering wave of hideous nausea to bubble up Lucifer’s throat. “I know. It sucks to be sick. Man, there was this one time…”

Mercifully – at last – Lucifer was able to catch his breath, sitting there and regaining himself amid Dan’s rambling tale of summer camp, ’97. And his sudden need to interrupt Dan lent him renewed strength.

“I don’t know about you, Dan,” came the husky whisper, dredged up from some truly piteous suffering, “but I’m quite ready to get up off this floor.”

With a final rub to Lucifer’s back, Dan sighed, and that same hand clapped against denim as it dropped to his knee. “Yeah, me too,” he agreed. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

\--

Ella stopped outside Pierce’s office, where she knew Chloe was, and stalled herself from actually knocking. Because knocking would interrupt their tête-à-tête, and Ella knew whatever was being discussed, it was probably pretty juicy (if the pile of scattered sterile swabs and empty specimen vials on her lab floor had been any indication of the intensity shared between Decker and the Lieutenant in their private moments).

“It’s not the dress that makes you look fat… _it’s the fat_.”

Ella whipped her head up just in time to see Debbie Simcoe, Harrison’s wife, burst into tears and run off with her face buried in her hands, leaving a smugly grinning Charlotte Richards standing in her wake. And her predatory gaze only brightened when she caught sight of Ella staring at her.

“Shit,” hissed Ella, turning and hurriedly knocking at Pierce’s door. But it was too late.

“Ella Lopez,” purred Charlotte, striding up beside her in six-inch Manolo Blahnik pumps and smiling like the cat who ate the canary. “I would say it’s lovely to see you, but…well.” Her saccharine smile faltered, and she suddenly soured in resignation, sighing wearily. “Actually, it’s not that bad to see you.”

“Uh…”

The door swung open, and Ella had never been so relieved to see the hulking lieutenant in her life. “Lopez,” greeted Pierce brusquely. “Ms. Richards,” he added, a bit more formally, nodding at her. “What can I do for you? Either of you…or both?”

“Uh…” stammered Ella, still floundering, but quickly re-plastering on a smile. “Just looking for Detective Decker, sir,” she added, for his benefit in the presence of company, as dubious as said company might have been. Charlotte glanced at her as if hearing that last thought aloud, her fuschia lips pursing.

Pierce stared, and wordlessly let the door slip the rest of the way open to reveal a very disheveled Chloe standing behind the desk, still flushed and her own lips quite bitten. Her face reddened further at the intrusion, and she hurriedly swept her hair back and pulled herself together, clearing her throat and coming forward to join Pierce at the doorway. “What’s up, Ella?”

Charlotte Richards notwithstanding, Lieutenant be damned, Ella could not stop the coy grin spreading across her face, this time genuine. “You tell me what’s up, _playa_.”

“All right,” Pierce grumped, folding his arms. “I’ll give you two a minute. Charlotte, you’re here to speak with me about the Winstead case, right?”

“Actually, this is about the Winstead case,” Ella interrupted, raising both hands. “Remember Mrs. Hernandez?”

“The woman who was saved by an angel.” Chloe murmured. “We spoke with her last week, why?”

“She brought in more evidence. A single feather, plucked from between the couch cushions, and get this…it was glowing.”

All eyes were on Ella, now. Pierce’s own eyebrows raised in surprise, expression actually human in a way that was very seldom seen. Charlotte uttered a throaty chuckle, tossing a hand in disbelief, pearls sparkling. “Really, Ella,” she scolded. “A glowing feather from an angel wing? This woman sounds crazy, and frankly, right now, so do you.”

But, beneath the condescension, Charlotte’s tone seemed to waver with uncertainty, and a flicker of unnamed fear – something very primal, indeed – shone beneath her cerulean eyes, not mocking at all.

\--

If Dan had ever envisioned himself within this personal of a proximity to Lucifer Morningstar, it would have (at first) been a daydream fantasy of him beating the crap out of the drawling dickhead, maybe chokeslamming him against his own bar, wiping the smug grin off his stubbly face. Nowadays, his daydreams weren’t as violent, but he still wasn’t leaping at the chance to cuddle with the guy.

Now, both arms sandwiching Lucifer to keep him steady as they, together, staggered from the handicapped stall over to the bathroom sinks, Dan realized how weird this day had become and also how _tall_ Lucifer was, jeez, the guy had to be six-three, and he was heavy and drenched with sleepless sweat beneath expensive-smelling cologne, probably the real deal, named something Italian or French, unpronounceable.

“Here,” Dan cut off his own train of thought, keeping one arm chivalrously braced against Lucifer’s back. “Rinse your mouth, splash some water on your face. I think this jacket’s headed straight for the cleaners.” He held up the wet and likely ruined Prada suit jacket stuffed under his other arm, expression grim.

Lucifer merely stared at his reflection in the mirror, uttering a defeated sigh and pulling at his eye-bags. One trembling hand lifted to scrub at the stubbled growth peppering his face. He looked like absolute shit. “Just as well,” he muttered without much inflection, turning on the faucet, water trailing over his fingers.

While Lucifer cleansed his mortal form of physical sin, Dan withdrew his supporting hand and let it return to its normal spot at his hip, licking his lips self-consciously. “Look, man,” he began. “I dunno what’s going on with you lately, and I’m sure you’re just as likely to tell me, but whatever it is, Chloe’s worried.”

“Yes, Daniel, you’ve said that already,” muttered Lucifer, straightening up and reaching for his ruined suit jacket to blot his face dry, tucking the cloth beneath his arm with a sigh. “I’m afraid any attempts I’ve made to explain my current state of emotional turmoil to the Detective have been met with naught.”

Dan furrowed his brow, deliberating whether or not to delve further. “What does that mean?”

Whatever Lucifer was about to retort was cut off by an abrupt surge of dizziness that sent him swooning, grappling again for the sink to hastily balance himself. Automatically, Dan’s hand shot out to catch him, bracing once more against his lower back. The intimacy of the gesture was not lost on either of them.

Lucifer inhaled firmly through his nose, eyelids fluttering, trying to regain composure. “I thank you for the assistance, Dan,” he managed, going for crisp but falling at exhausted, “but I’ll also thank you to remove that hand at once, before my erogenous zones get all hot and bothered. They don’t call me The Skillet for nothing, after all.”

Dan flinched, then rolled his eyes, and did not remove his hand.

“Whatever, dude. C’mon. How bout I call you a cab home instead.”

Lucifer’s tongue formed the automated syllables of dismissal, but deep within, something fragile snapped. “Yes, Daniel…that would be lovely.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I turned this into a whole fuckin episode with all the cutaways. Oops.


End file.
